coda
by Sane-in-Insanity
Summary: Dean/Castiel — Say your final prayers.


_Note: Takes place in 5x04 before the conference/meeting for their final mission._

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**coda**

_Say your final prayers._

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The world is crumbling around you, stone by stone, brick by brick, until there is nothing left but a world built from pipe dreams—dreams in which the world isn't buried in ashes or plummeting straight down to Hell.

Of course, all dreams come to an end, and you wake up and realize _this is it_. There's no going back, no escaping, no _surviving_ because this is where you will die and where it will end.

With a low, cynical laugh, you think—it's about time.

"So, this is it."

Your voice rings loud and clear in the grimy conference room in the heart of Chitaqua. You lean against the table, taking a long drag of your joint, achingly aware of the fact that it's probably the last stick you'll be smoking before you go out with a bang.

"Yes, this is it," Dean echoes and takes a swig of beer. The hard authority usually found in his voice is temporarily absent from the effects of booze. You secretly relish the knowledge that in this day and age, you're the only one with the luxury of seeing Dean with his guard down.

You smirk with morbid amusement; you find everything amusing nowadays. It must come with the package of this _decadence _that you indulge in so much now that God is no longer your concern.

"Something funny you wanna share with the class, Cas?"

You glance at Dean, full on grinning now. "Lucifer must be pissing himself laughing just about now."

Dean scowls, obviously displeased. "And why the hell's that?"

"Because once this is all over, he will have one less enemy to worry about." That is, assuming the Devil even finds you and your little squad worth the concern. You doubt it. "I bet he's even decorated our graves with pretty flowers and whatnot."

"You think I don't know that?" Dean demands and chugs down more liquor before slamming the bottle onto the table. He wipes his mouth roughly with the back of his hand. "If you've got any other brilliant ideas, pray fuckin' tell."

You look away from his angry, angry eyes. When you speak, your voice is suddenly quiet. "Does he know?"

You don't need to elaborate on who _he _is, because both of you already know. You wish you didn't, but you do and that makes everything so much worse. It's almost cruel—seeing the untarnished version of the man you love alive and well in a realm so tainted, so _dead_. He is probably the only decent human being left in this world and you desperately want to shield him, to keep him from witnessing the consequences of the decision he made five years ago.

"Not yet, but he will," Dean answers. You see an elaboration coming, so you wait silently. "He needs to see Sam. He needs to _see _what his—my—naivety has cost us. It's the only way he will even think about saying yes to Michael."

You know Dean, present or past, would never say yes, because that's how he is: stubborn, unyielding, righteous. He will witness the final showdown, travel back to 2009 and find another way to steer the world clear from this particular conclusion, and perhaps he will succeed.

In _this _world though, he didn't, and everybody is paying the price.

Somehow, you think it isn't _all _bad, because in this version of your twisted fairy tale, there's an '_us_' for you and Dean. There are stolen nights and whispered sweet nothings and crumpled bed sheets in the morning, and there are half-smoked pipes and spilled liquor in your hidden sanctuary where your darkest, wildest dreams come true.

"If he says yes, we…wouldn't have what we have." _Whatever we have._

"I know," Dean sighs, and he swallows heavily. His eyes soften a little when they meet yours. "If it matters to you, I think if any of _this _is worth saving, it's—" he chokes slightly, "—it's this _thing _we have. Not you or I—hell, we're way beyond saving, but _us_." Dean finishes, looking rather lost. "I have no friggin' idea what I just said. Shit, I need more booze."

Before he can grab a new bottle of beer, you step closer to him and your fingers clasp around his wrist, firm and possessive. You press yourself against him, and you feel him freeze immediately. His pulse beneath your fingers quickens at the harsh intimacy and a surge of pride flares within your chest, because it's _the end of the world _and you can still make Dean _want_.

You start nuzzling his neck, lips just barely grazing the warm surface, and you hear a thick, half-hearted rasp, "Stop."

You respond with a challenge, tinged with sarcasm that you adapt so often nowadays. "Make me, fearless leader."

When Dean doesn't make a move to stop you, your lips curl into a wicked smile and you know you have won. And in the back of your mind, somewhere, you think—for a final victory, it isn't all that bad.

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_Pre-smut again~ I hope you liked it :) Please review!_


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